Examples of teachers' writing

Mari Cruice teaches in London. She joined a London NWP group in 2009 and has been a member ever since. This is a short story that she wrote in the classroom while her year eleven students were writing creative pieces for their GCSEs.

Miss and Mr Jones by Mari Cruice

‘Go on, Miss, read us what you’ve written,’ said Ella. ‘Alright,’ said Ms Harrison, keen to gain kudos with her new class. ‘Here’s mine.’

She clicked the remote control and the short story that she had composed while her students had been writing their coursework, appeared on the electronic whiteboard.

Mr Jones walked down the airless corridor of his Cardiff comprehensive. Despite the GCSE artwork, the long, thin space between the walls felt more like a hospital than a gallery. He jostled his way through the mucky mass of indifferent students, failing to remind them to tuck their shirt in or tighten their tie. Snatches of the previous night’s conversation with the consultant repeated in his head like a recorded message from a call centre: ‘He needs to have the operation tomorrow but there are significant risks. He needs to have the operation tomorrow but there are significant risks. He needs to have the ...' Mr Jones tried to bring his thoughts back to his lesson. He was now standing in front of thirty year nine students who had been gunning for him for the last few weeks. They had been teacher-baiting, testing his boundaries, pushing his buttons. Most years, he didn’t have trouble establishing his authority. His big build, sense of humour and infectious enthusiasm for science meant that kids warmed to him. But this September, his son’s illness had been distracting him and today, the haunting mental refrain (operation tomorrow but there are…) meant that his usual, broad smile and sparkling eyes were replaced by a twitching jaw muscle and tense fists. ‘Quiet, please!’ he called to the group. They ignored him. Sharon, taking her mirror from her bag, was squealing excitedly to Rachel. Jo and Lloyd were thumping each other increasingly violently on the arm. ‘Quiet, please!’ Mr Jones stated again. Sensing that they had the upper hand, the group collectively decided that quiet was not yet required. ‘Oi, Ben!’ shouted Kevin from the back row, ‘gi’ us one of them sweets.’ Ben obligingly threw three wrapped éclairs across the room. 9Y2 seemed increasingly to be acting as one now. A jeer went up and Molly judged that the small piece of paper, a love note that she was writing to Sean, would be a fine addition to the flying objects. She let it loose, glancing coquettishly at her target. Armena, intuiting the mood, gigglingly lobbed up a recently used pencil sharpener. Small, wooden shavings wafted down onto Jackson, who proceeded to stand up and stamp dramatically as if the ceiling were coming down. Mr Jones recognised that adrenaline was being released into his blood stream; his primally-wired body was sensing danger. Fight or flight were the chemical signals that his brain was receiving and every fibre of his body wanted to fly, to leave the braying, sniggering pack of adolescents to their own youthful concerns. He had no fight left in him. Let them throw missiles and kick each other’s shoes; let them flirt and tousle, what did he care? He wanted to see his own little boy, to be there by his hospital bed, to hold his tiny hand and to tell him that it would be alright. But before he could flee, a paper plane flew past his ear and drew him from his daydream. The rational part of his brain was bypassed. His body flooded with what felt like fury. His head snapped up. ‘Just shut the fuck up, you ignorant little shits!’ he yelled, flinging his arms out in exasperation. He was releasing, opening the valve and it was making him feel better, more in control, not of the kids in his class but of the desperation that he had been fighting since he found out about his son’s illness. ‘You lot have no idea how to behave; you fling your sodding missiles at me as if being here is one big sodding joke. Well, it’s not funny. It’s not fucking funny.’ 9Y2 were now very quiet indeed. At the front of the class Mr Jones stood motionless; his heart rate gradually resuming a slower beat. At the classroom’s entrance Mrs Price, the Head Teacher had appeared. ‘I’ll take year nine for the rest of the lesson’, she said. ‘You need to go to reception and phone home, your wife’s got news.’ Mr Jones once again was at the mercy of his physiology. Clichéd as it seemed, his knees were weak and he felt a lump forming at the back of his throat. When he got to the school reception he dialled his wife’s mobile number. The three rings that it took for her to answer echoed ominously. ‘Hiya love,’ she said straight away. ‘Good news, the op was fine and the doctor said he’s almost certain to make a full recovery.’ ‘Thank Christ for that. Give him a big cuddle from me. See you later, love.' Jonesey sat down on the school’s posh, padded, purple chair, reserved for prospective staff or parents, and wept.

When the tears had washed away his hurt and his fright, Mr Jones’ thoughts returned to 9Y2. He groaned inwardly at the memory of his outburst and now thoughts concerning the possible consequences of using such strong language in the classroom crowded in. Would he get a formal warning? Would he even lose his job?

Mr Jones walked down the airless corridor of his Cardiff comprehensive. He hesitated briefly before entering the room where 9Y2 were now working in silence for the Head. ‘Thanks, Mrs Price’, said Mr Jones. I’ll take over again. Mrs Price nodded kindly, ‘I’ll catch up with you at lunch time,’ she said, and glided out of the room.

The silence was palpable and heavy with unspoken words. In Mr Jones’ absence, the Head had gently explained about his son’s illness and the class had been reminded what genuine remorse feels like. ‘Is everything alright, sir?’ said Jackson tentatively. ‘Everything is alright, Jackson. Thanks for asking. I’m sorry I lost it earlier.' ‘We’re sorry too, sir,’ mumbled various members of the class. ‘Right then,’ said Mr Jones. ‘Respiration…’ Ms Harrison looked up from her paper, quietly hopeful that her year ten class would applaud. As she glanced, smiling, up from her script, she sensed an unusual stillness. Her students were silent. She looked towards the classroom door and there, framed by heavy, ancient oak, was the Head. ‘My office lunch time Ms Harrison’ he said.-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mari Cruice says:

"Writing alongside my classes has been one of the most important changes that I have made to my practice since becoming part of a ‘Teachers as Writers’ group. When I write with students, my role shifts from a knowing, patrolling judge (an authority), to a struggling, vulnerable equal (an author?). This has had a positive impact on my relationship with my students: they better understand my need for a quiet, working atmosphere; I better understand their frustrations and their fears. Together we explore what we might want to say and how best to express ourselves. Set in a year nine classroom, this particular story explores the twin pressures of ‘behaviour management’ and ‘management’s behaviour’. When I read it to my year elevens, they applauded loudly and appreciatively. I wonder what it was that they liked?"